


First Dance

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Brahms Learns About Modern Music, F/M, Just A Cute Piece of Fluff, Or As Modern As The 80's Anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:27:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27591353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: What happens when Brahms discovers the world of 80's music.
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Reader, Brahms Heelshire/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	First Dance

“It’s here!”

You exclaim this to yourself more than to Brahms, who’s dozing languidly on one of the expensive living-room couches, mask dangling from two fingers. He opens his eyes and rolls his head back to look at you, reattaching his porcelain face as he does so. It’s been some weeks since he first took it off, but its presence seems to be more habit than anything else now.

“What is it?”

“Come and see.”

Unfolding his long, lanky limbs, he shuffles over to where you’re knelt on the carpet, a large cardboard box in front of you.

“I thought it’d gotten lost,” you say, sliding your fingers under the taped flaps and tugging them open. Brahms stands beside you, his towering figure no longer unnerving, but a comfort, his head tilted to one side as you pull out the first record. Your sister had sensibly packaged the box tightly with Styrofoam, so none of the cardboard sleeves were so much as dented.

“These were our parents’,” you explain. You pass the record to Brahms’s curious hands, and he runs his fingers ponderously across the picture.

“Is it music?” he asks. Still sleepy from his nap, his voice is a little higher than normal, but not fully expressing his boy persona. 

“Of course.” You know his parents only ever allowed classical music to be played in the house, but it still surprises you that he’s never heard of Survivor. “Here.” You hold out your hand. “Prepare to have your mind blown, Brahmsy.”

The expression clearly confuses him, but he hands the record back and follows you meekly to the library. The record player is currently playing host to Beethoven, which you store respectfully in its sleeve and replace the vinyl with the one in your excited hands.

Brahms stands, a little cautiously, some feet away, watching silently as you set the needle. The first words almost cause him to start, but he’s quickly distracted by the way your hips start to move to the strange new music.

_“We will remember this first night forever, after all the songs fade away, and the stage fades to grey . . .”_

The melody is slow, easy, your body swaying gently to the soft male voice crooning from the speaker. Brahms can’t tear his eyes from you as you move closer to him, taking his hands and placing them on your hips. He lilts from side to side in attempt to copy your movements, like a human metronome.

_“We’ll recall the things that we said, all the foolish dreams in our head, on the night we met.”_

He jerks back at the sudden change in tempo, and you start bouncing on the balls of your feet, tossing your head so your hair flies about your face.

“Come on, Brahms,” you laugh, holding a hand out to him. “Dance with me.”

He can’t. He doesn’t know _how_. Besides, watching the way your breasts bounce inside your shirt as you jump strikes him as much more fun than . . . whatever it is you’re doing. You close your eyes and throw your head back, bouncing to the guitar riffs and drum beat. God, you’ve missed this.

You sense Brahms moving beside you and open your eyes. Your face breaks out in an ear-to-ear grin as you watch his gangly limbs start to twitch in some awkward attempt at dancing.

“That’s it!” You take his hands and pull him closer to you. The rhythm of your movements travels through your linked fingers, and he starts bopping up and down in time with you.

_“And this night shall be remembered, long after the music’s gone, and we’ll reminisce on the things we said, and we’ll fall in love again.”_

His dance moves may be more ‘dying spider’ than cutting footloose, but the fact that he’s doing it at all makes you laugh with joy. You’ve never seen him so free and uncontained in such a frivolous way. You’ve seen him lose control, seen him almost feral, but only ever in lust or rage. This is something new. 

As the song fades out, you cup the back of his neck and plant a chaste kiss on his cool, smooth cheek.

“My dancing boy,” you whisper fondly, he nuzzles into your neck.

You might wait a day or so before exposing him to AC/DC.


End file.
